I was 13 years old the first time that a doctor informed me of my eminent death.  I suppose that its ok considering I had wanted to die since I was 12. The only issue is that I had always pictured myself dozing into sleep with a bottle of pills or bleeding out in the bathtub. I never considered before that day that my weight would be the silent killer. The only tragedy is he said I’d have to wait 30 years, which simply would not do. I suppose he felt obligated to tell my mother in front of me that I would not live past the age of 50, maybe he thought it would encourage me to lose weight, but that’s not how depression works. My body decided to increase its rate of gain, double down on fat production, pile in so I can pass away. I think part of me thought if I continued to eat that I would be able to hasten my demise. I suppose that’s why I was always hungry, even if I knew I shouldn’t eat, I was starving. Now I’m in college a hundred pounds heavier and everyone’s trying to delay death? Why? What could possibly tether you to this earth? I visit the doctor a second time for an acne medication. This time he takes me to another room to a “special scale” so I can be weighed. He reminds me again of the magical words “heart disease” the words alone make me hungry for a greasy burger or Mac n Cheese bites. He has the nurse check my blood pressure and my heart rate, standard procedure. He walks in, reads the chart and his face scrunches up like my hands when I can’t bring myself to get out of the bath tub. He looks at me with his eyebrows furrowed so that they look like hairy mountains and tells me that he needs to retake my heart rate and blood pressure. I’m in no hurry. He takes the tests and declares that I have below normal blood pressure and a normal heart rate. At first I was confused and asked “well isn’t that a good thing?” that’s when I realized his expectations, he told me of how he had expected higher results because of my weight. Suppose I should know by now. I walked out of the office reminded of that day when I was 12 reminded of how the world expects me to die. Reminded that the only thing many people will ever remember about me is the word fat. So lose the weight they say, but how can I when my tears leave my stomach as empty as the other half of my bed? How can I when food is the only thing left that brings me joy? And why should I be anything, but myself? Because you’re going to die! You yell at me. But can’t you see, I’ve been ready since I was 13?